"Sold the World" H/W one-shot for hw_fest

[simple__man]

Title: Sold the World
Author: simple_man
Word Count: 3915
Prompt was: Wilson learns something about House's childhood

SPOILER WARNING: Spoilers for the Tritter arc, ESPECIALLY Merry Little Christmas. DO NOT READ if you don't want to get spoiled, yeah?

Other warnings: Behind cut, so as not to spoil anyone for MLC.

Summary: House understands Wilson's feelings after the Christmas Eve debacle, and struggles to find a way to explain himself.

A/N: Written for hw_fest


Warning: Not-that-graphic descriptions of suicide and attempted suicide

Wilson isn't speaking to him. This, in and of itself, is nothing new, as it happens to be Wilson's preferred form of punishment.

Feeling that he deserves that punishment, however, is new. Brand-spanking, new in box, never been opened, mint condition. New.

Two weeks. Two long, lonely weeks without a word. Not a single word. No smiles, no glances, nothing. Cold and silent as the grave, is James Wilson.

Finally, House realizes, finally I've found his limit. I've pushed too hard, but I know now exactly how far I can go.

Of all the decisions he's made since Tritter's debut in his life, the decision to make amends to Wilson is perhaps the most difficult It's definitely the most degrading. Considering that he spent a large part of his Christmas Eve rolling around in his own vomit, that's saying something.

"I'm not apologizing," he says to no one in particular. Everyone is avoiding him, even the people who are paid to put up with him. He's never been popular, never wanted the companionship and affection that others seemed to crave, but this is starting to get ridiculous. He isn't nearly as interesting to listen to as he'd always thought he was.

Still, he has no choice if he wants to ever hear Wilson's dulcet tones again but to make the first move. He might not be able to make himself say the actual words, but he has to let Wilson know something.

Once he's made the decision to speak to Wilson, and take whatever monotonous lectures and "I'm so horribly disappointed" faces that are coming to him, House can't seem to find him anywhere. "Isn't that just like him?" he says, but of course, no one answers.

"It was a rhetorical question, anyway," he scoffs to his empty office. He stretches his mind around the problem of the missing oncologist, the only problem plaguing his mind at present. Cuddy refuses to give him any new cases, and Tritter is no longer skulking about (no doubt waiting for the most dramatic moment possible to unveil his dastardly plan), so there is no reason not to turn his entire attention to the matter at hand.

Wilson's office is just as empty as his, as is the oncology lounge. Empty of Wilsons anyway, as it is full of lowlier oncologists who eye him gravely, their mouths pursed in silent disapproval. Well, as long as it remains silent, he'll take their disapproval, knowing that it's nothing personal. To a man, they are loyal to Wilson, and he can't help but respect that. His own have abandoned him.

He searches the hospital from floor to floor, but all of his normal avenues of inquiry have dried up. The nurses shun him, the orderlies feign hearing loss, the other doctors have always hated him anyway. Jealousy, he mutters, but he knows that he's an asshole. He's proud of it, mostly, but right now that state of being is making his life more difficult than he likes.

He cases Wilson's motel, but the old familiar Volvo is nowhere to be found. A drive-by of Julie's house turns up nothing, as does a surprise visit to the Wilson parents. They're happy to see him, which he finds strangely relieving. He even smokes a cigar out on the back patio with Wilson Sr. before setting out again on his quest. Mrs. Wilson sends him away with cookies, and House finds himself smiling at her. He even waves goodbye.

God, I really am pathetic, he thinks.

Even more pathetic is the figure he finds moping on a well-remembered street corner. Of course, he only remembered after searching all over Hell and Creation for upwards of five hours, wracking his brain for every possible piece of Princeton geography that Wilson might have set foot on, ever. It's embarrassing how he's slipping in his old age.

It has nothing to do with the now-unforced, but still unwelcome stepping down of his Vicodin dosage. It has nothing to do with the searing pain that rages in his thigh, the dull ache that gnaws at his shoulder, the guilty burn that lays stoked in his belly.

Nothing at all.

Wilson looks as bad as House feels, although hopefully he doesn't feel as bad as House looks. Both look like they belong on this street corner, as if their entire lives had only been roads to this one central point of meeting.

"I made you cookies," House says, by way of greeting. He holds them out, a peace offering of sorts.

Wilson continues staring straight ahead, grumbling, "I know those cookies. Leave my parents out of this."

House bristles at the unfairness, but says nothing. Now that he's here, he's not exactly sure what to say. He motions for Wilson to let him sit down, but Wilson's ignoring is in fine form. Only when House is millimeters away from sitting in Wilson's lap does he make room, pulling his overcoat around him protectively, arms folded, scowling.

"I get that you're angry," House begins, but Wilson quickly cuts him off.

"No, House, I don't think that you do."

The silence starts again, this time even louder than before, a roaring din of nothingness that stabs at House in vulnerable places he didn't even know he had. Wilson's mouth is doing that thing it does when he's angry, quirking most unprettily in the gloomy twilight, the cold making his nose and ears red and shiny.

"I shouldn't have done that," he tries again.

A muscle working diligently in Wilson's jaw is the only indication that he might possibly be listening.

"Not that I was actively...I wasn't trying to..."

Rarely does he find himself without words. Stammering is just not his thing. That's a Wilson thing, but Wilson isn't talking, so maybe it's a House thing for now. At least until Wilson starts up talking again.

"You weren't trying to?" Wilson asks, and that is a tone that House has never heard before in all of his days of hearing Wilson tones. It is not a good tone. There is worry and disbelief and anger and exhausted fear in that tone, and that doesn't even take into account the emotions that are just barely visible in Wilson's aborted gestures. He bites back the rest of the lecture, folding his arms once more, shutting off further communication.

"You really are pissed off, aren't you?" He doesn't like the little-boy lost thing he's got going on, but he has to say something, because a life without talking to Wilson really doesn't appeal. The talking must be done, and if Wilson is falling down on his job, then House has no other choice but to speak of things best left unspoken.

"You think?" Snapped out like a curse, and his teeth are grinding audibly with the effort to keep back the tide of emotion.

"I wasn't actively looking for death. I wouldn't have minded if it came, but that wasn't my intention."

Wilson turns, disbelief marring the lines of his boyish face, "You're kidding, right? You took how many pills? You drank how much? You called your parents because?"

Oh, crap. House forgets that Wilson continues to hold a place in the hearts of the parents, because of his help and concern post-infarction. He also forgets that Mom has no problem airing any grievances to Wilson, because in her mind, Wilson has become an extension (a much more likable and amenable extension) of House.

"Drunk and maudlin half-assed attempt at Christmas reconciliation?" he hazards, but Wilson can see a House-lie coming a million miles away.

What's the saying, a boy marries a woman like his mother? House sidesteps the "married" part in his mind, but Cuddy's crack about his "wife" stands ready, waiting to pounce.

He tries again, injecting a bit more honesty this time, "Guess what? I don't like pain. Why? Because it hurts me. For a minute there, I couldn't see past the pain."

"You didn't try."

"You don't listen!" he barks, "I told you to give me something for the nausea, you wouldn't. I keep telling you the other meds don't work. You want me to do these impossible things, but you won't help me do them!"

"Stop blaming me for problems that you bring on yourself!"

There we are then, House thinks, impasse. He's tired of fighting, he's tired of a lot of things, and he needs Wilson's voice, steady and sarcastic, ringing in his ear. Whatever he has to do to keep Wilson talking, he needs to do it, and he needs to do it fast.

"You're right." It is a small concession, two little words, but it has the effect of galvanizing Wilson's attention, which is exactly what he requires.

"I'm what now?" Wilson isn't being sarcastic. He's genuinely bewildered, which strikes House as funny, somehow.

"That thing you are, occasionally," House hedges, but there is a slight softening in the sharp cast of Jimmy's face, and that is a hopeful thing.

Wilson seems to rally for a moment, mouth and eyes hard as he marshals his defenses, but he knows, more than anyone, the sacrifice of dignity needed for House to admit such a thing. Of all of the ploys that House had envisioned, he had a feeling that this would be the most effective.

He had no idea that it would be this effective. He can see the exact moment that Wilson's righteous indignation leaves him, the bowing of his shoulders a relief as the burden of the past few weeks is forgotten. It's still there, of course, it will never leave him as long as House lives. He wonders if Jimmy realizes just how much more relieved he'd be feeling if death had found House that night.

"I'm going to get coffee," Wilson announces, as if nothing untoward had ever happened between them, "You're coming with me."

House does not argue, following behind Wilson like a puppy dog who's regained his master's favor. He makes up for this feeling by speeding all the way to the coffee shop, weaving in and out of traffic as recklessly as he dares. Never know when Tritter might come back for a repeat performance, and he's not yet back in Wilson's good graces. Bail money would be a hell of a lot harder to come by, this time.

He's leaning against the brick building when Wilson pulls in, slowly, sedately, next to his motorcycle. "Took you long enough," he mutters, chuckling when Wilson flips him off over his shoulder as he parks.

"Bat ears," he calls as Wilson locks his doors. House holds open the door for him, and he can almost see it being noted in his "Credits" column.

"I didn't have to hear you," Wilson rolls his eyes, "I know you."

Before he can stop himself, House admits softly, "Better than you know." He could bite himself for saying even that much, but the quicksilver glint in Wilson's eye (a flash of concern, here and gone in a matter of seconds) gives him hope.

He dutifully hands over his wallet, another concession made. Worth every penny, to be able to see that amused smirk for the first time in what seems like ages. He doesn't tell Wilson his order. He doesn't have to.

As he locates a table, he ponders his options. He owes Wilson something, if not for this whole Tritter nonsense, then certainly for the Christmas Eve debacle. These little gestures are all well and good, but he knows himself well enough to know that it won't last. He'll get tired, bored, aggravated, and things will go back to how they've always been between them.

It will take something a little more personal, a little more permanent. He knows what he has to do, has known since looking into those familiar eyes through a drug-induced haze. Watching those eyes go dark with anger, hurt, fear. Knowing exactly how he felt, seeing it this time from the other side.

He has spoken of many things to James Wilson, but his childhood has never been one of those things.

Wilson knows the basics of his childhood, of course; the hither and yon of military life, the running fights with Dad, the hoarding of knowledge, the timeline of Tripoli, Egypt, Japan, Mom's Waldorf salads, cocktail parties with the officer's wives.

The details, though, have always been divulged in the vaguest terms possible. He's never been entirely sure why. A sense of family pride, or of personal dignity needing to be upheld, respect for the dead, but he couldn't say exactly. It would make more sense if it were his entire past that he was close-mouthed about, but Wilson knows things about him (from age eighteen to present, at least) that no one else alive knows.

As Wilson takes the seat across, passing over a coffee, House finds himself speaking. "I've never told anyone else this, and if I hear about it again, I'll know exactly where it came from."

Wilson's forehead furrows, his mouth caught mid-sip. "Who would I tell?"

"Your partner in crime, for one. My mother, for another." House inspects his coffee suspiciously. The baristas don't like him very much. A very good reason to have Wilson order, besides the friendship accountancy.

"I'm not actually speaking to Cuddy right now, so no worries on that count."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. It'll stay right here, okay? Between you, me, and the wall."

House nods, taking a deep breath. If he were anyone else, he would think he was on the verge of a panic attack. "I meant what I said. I wasn't trying to," he stumbles a bit over the words,"kill myself, not really. If I were going to, I wouldn't do it where you could find me."

Wilson is eyeing him in that way he has, searching his eyes, down to his soul it seems sometimes. "So next time, I won't be able to find you?" His voice is getting that edge again.

"That's not what I'm...shut up. Listen to me for once."

"I don't understand you. Explain it so I can understand what the hell you're trying to tell me."

House growls, "You always take everything I say in the worst possible way. There won't be a next time. Probably. It was a lapse of judgment, not a plan."

"Oh, really?"

"If it had been a plan, do you think I'd be sitting here with you?"

Wilson sighs. "Fine. Have it your way, you're perfect and you never make mistakes."

"Isn't that what I'm telling you? That I made a mistake?" He is steadily getting louder, the baristas are staring, other customers are staring.

With an almost physical effort, he quiets, then tries again. "I'm trying to tell you that I wouldn't want you to find me...like that. Dead. I'm trying to tell you that I know how that feels."

Wilson wastes no time in asking the question that House needs him to ask, just as House knew he would. "How do you know how that would feel? Who was it that you..." He doesn't finish the question.

A question from Wilson, that's all it takes, and the floodgates are open. Coming back from Fourth of July fireworks to his Aunt's home, no older than four, scabby knees and mosquito bites, racing his older cousin for the bathroom. Winning. Still, red water, rivulets of blood stark against the white porcelain, the screams of Uncle Joe's oldest son.

"I don't remember it, not really," House finishes, "I wish I did." To Wilson's questioning glance, he elaborates, "It's worse, thinking about being a child, finding that. I'm sure it wasn't half as bad as I imagine it was. My parents, too. They were always trying to pin behavior problems on some incident I wasn't even really present for, mentally speaking."

"The mind forgets, to protect you. Maybe you remember more than you think."

If House had to pinpoint the thing that he loves (if that's the word he wants) most about James Wilson, it is his unflappable acceptance of...everything, everyone. No gasping, no words of disbelief, no untoward amount of sympathy. Cool, calm, collected. This is why he needs Wilson in his life, desperately so.

As he muses, Wilson does that thing he does, digging through the words that House says to get to the truth that lies in what House doesn't say. "You don't remember, but you said that I don't know how it feels." He stops, waiting, patient as always. Should have been a therapist.

House wonders how many patients would thank him for telling them they were batshit insane. At ten bucks a pop, he'd be bankrupt within a week. Something about that smile. Those eyes. Made a person want to spill their guts, and lay their on his shoulder and sniffle a little bit. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

"Your predecessor."

"I had a predecessor?"

"You don't have to sound so damned shocked. I do have other friends, you know." Wilson doesn't look like he's buying it. "He was seventeen, just a kid."

"And you?"

"Sixteen."

"Just a kid," Wilson echoes. He is shredding his napkin into tiny little confetti pieces, but his attention is fixed upon House. "What happened?"

This was the hard part. Necessary, to make Wilson understand, but still incredibly difficult. Too many confidences shared tonight, more than he'd shared in years. "Shotgun. Blew the back of his skull wide open."

It's harsh, even to his ears, but the bluntness is his own form of protection. Wilson knows this, and doesn't scold him. "You found him, alone." Not a question. One day he'll stop wondering at that.

"He didn't tell anyone, didn't leave a note. Nothing. I wasn't even looking for him, I was avoiding him because we were fighting."

"He came onto you?"

House blinks, "Where the hell did that come from?" He doesn't deny it.

"I know you." Wilson says simply. He does not elaborate, for which House is grateful. He isn't ready for this discussion. There isn't yet enough Vicodin in the world for this discussion. Not yet. Someday. Fix the friendship first, that's the main thing.

"He was sick," which is true, "He was in pain," also true. He leaves out the part where Jack asked him, begged him to help end his life.

"You feel guilty. For not helping."

And for being too scared to take him up on his offer, House doesn't add, too afraid that dear old Dad might find out. "I could have made it easier. I knew what to do. I just...couldn't."

Wilson is pensive, lost in thought for a moment, then he says, gently, "Twice in one life. No wonder..."

"Shut up. Don't use that to explain away my behavior, that's my mother's schtick."

"When have I ever?"

A snort. "You're the leg guy, that's right. An infarction in my thigh in my forties explains every asshole thing I've ever done in the three decades preceding."

"Fine. You're an asshole. You always were an asshole. You'll always be an asshole. You still didn't deserve that, and I'm sorry it happened."

"You didn't deserve it, either." A pause, then, "I shouldn't have put you in that position. I'm sorry."

The apology is so low, it's almost inaudible, but Wilson's bat ears hear it immediately. His only acknowledgement to House's statement is the slightest dip of his head, but House catches it. There is a symmetry there, something important that he doesn't think he'll ever understand completely; he knows the meanings behind Wilson's gestures, Wilson knows the meanings behind his words.

"You aren't forgiven," Wilson proclaims, gathering up his napkin confetti and their cups. "I am speaking to you now, though."

"Thank God for that." His sarcasm is nowhere near up to par. He hopes Wilson doesn't get the wrong idea, that he's grateful for his voice or something equally as nauseating.

"If you ever do that to me again, I'm taking matters into my own hands."

"Gonna shoot me yourself?"

"I have a cunning plan that involves injecting you with cancer and marrying you off to Cameron, then curing you and making you live for another forty or fifty years, caught in her evil clutches. Don't fuck with me."

House chuckles, following Wilson outside. "That's overkill, isn't it? The Cameron part, I mean. I think you're still angry with me."

Wilson turns, one foot on the walkway, one foot on the pavement. His face is drawn, serious, as he breathes, "I have never been so angry in my entire life. Three divorces, and no one has ever hurt me that way before. Next time, be prepared to fight me, House."

"There won't be a next time."

He looks so broken, so sad in the sickly yellow light of the parking lot, "Of course there will be. Because you can't even admit to yourself how damaged you are. I didn't even realize it, not really."

House closes his eyes, trying to find some words that will reassure Wilson, but he doesn't have any. Truth is, he couldn't say that he wouldn't try it again, for real next time, not from the pain in his thigh but from the pain of trying to get along. The day to day wear and tear on his psyche.

"I'm sorry," Wilson says, and House's eyes fly open,"I shouldn't have left you. Even if it was the worst thing for you, I should have stayed. Next time, you won't be alone."

House's brain wants to make a crack along the lines of Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers, that sort of thing, but his mouth refuses to open. He ends up just standing under the yellow lights, hoping that he doesn't look as stupid as he thinks he does.

Before he knows it, he's taken Wilson's hand in his, briefly, so briefly, but he has never been one for touching, affection, and even that much touch is rife with meaning and innuendo. Wilson knows it, but he accepts the touch graciously. House doesn't let himself think that the quick clasp of hands means anything more to Wilson than just a simple gesture between friends, but deep down, he knows better.

"I'm going to my motel and you're coming with me," Wilson exhales, and House can almost feel the world turning on its ear.

"My place has better acoustics," House blurts, wanting to kick himself as soon as it's said.

"And cable," Wilson adds.

"And cable."

Maybe that'll be enough, for now. There's so much there he doesn't understand, so many questions he wants answered, so many stories of his own that he aches to tell.

Tritter be damned, House isn't done with Jimmy Wilson just yet.

"I'll meet you there."

If he's lucky, Wilson isn't done with Greg House just yet, either. That's a pretty damned good reason to keep breathing another day, he thinks.

It'll do for now.